PTSD
by hayleighann
Summary: How each District deals with or in some cases doesn't deal with its victors. All 12 will take place immediately following the victor's win. Each will include characters mentioned in the books in some way.
1. District 1

"Wow. This house is amazing."

A crash shakes the upstairs followed by pounding footsteps, crisscrossing across the spacious Victor's house. Satin tries to keep her eyes on Glimmer, forcing her gaze away from the open staircase.

"You're so lucky your sister won the Games," Glimmer says wistfully, running her hands over the stone fireplace imported into the District. Satin just nods and tugs at the neckline of her tunic, the delicate stitching stretched too far, tiny jewels dangling off their threads.

"Just four more years and this could be us," Glimmer sighs.

A panicked shriek pierces the air followed by more pounding footsteps, just as the victor's mother blows into the house with a gust of warm, late-summer air.

"Where is anyone? Is anyone here?" a girl's voice screams.

Satin backs up towards the door as bare feet slam down the stairs, shrinking farther from sight as her mother rushes past.

"Mom!" the victor cries, flying the rest of the way down the stairs and wrapping herself around her worn-down mother. "Don't leave me, I thought you were gone!" she says hysterically, blond hair falling limp around her shoulders, clumps sticking to the tear-tracks running down her red cheeks.

"It's okay, sweetie, Mommy was just at work, Satin was at school—"

"Mom—" Satin squeaks from the doorway.

Her mother pulls away for a second and the victor pulls tighter, burying her head in her mother's shoulder.

"Oh Satin honey, it's alright. Just go find your father at training, okay? He'll help you."

Satin hangs in the doorway for a moment, staring fixedly at the sister who once looked so strong. Hands that were once steady now clutch shakily at clothes and skin, pulling life hungrily toward her. "_Don't ever leave me_," she whimpers into her mother's hair.

"Satin, please go honey, you don't want to see this," her mother pleads before turning back towards the victor, stroking her honey-colored hair softly.

A small hand encircles Satin's wrist and pulls her gently out the door and she allows herself to be lead away, taking one last look at her sister before turning away.

"She'll be fine, they always get better after the first couple weeks, remember?" Glimmer says, placing a tiny hand reassuringly on Satin's shoulder. "And then, think how fun it will be when she finally feels happy enough to buy all those toys and candy!"

Satin glances behind her at the open door, watching as her mother detangles herself from her sister's grasp, messaging the girl's hands until her breathing slows. "Do you think it's worth it, though? Going through all this?" Satin says slowly.

Glimmer's smile droops for a moment as they both stare at the victor now, see the hands that held a knife to bleeding throat just a couple weeks before, now trembling. But then a group of eight-year-olds jog by in training clothes, calling excitedly for Glimmer and Satin to join the bow-and-arrow demonstration. Just as quickly, Glimmer's smile reappears.

"They train us all how to deal with it when we win. And they coached your parents right before your sister came home! They got us covered. We're safe," Glimmer says, reaching to entwine her fingers with Satin's.

Satin squeezes her friend's hand but doesn't smile back, instead looking inside at the small frown that plays across her mother's face as she looks out at the training field beyond the two girls.


	2. District 2

He sits in the empty quarry just to the north of his new home. Officially it's called the Victor's Village, but muttered under breath it's always different: Peace Evaders by the built military, Slaughterhouses by the weakened stone miners, a Trust Group, a family, by the victors themselves. Three classes, always clashing, scuffling, but blended on the edges. Always a give and take between them, an equality met with the ebb and flow of miners to Peacekeepers, Peacekeepers to victors, victors to find root again in the rock of the empty quarries. A physical barrier of unforeseeable distance around the District, a reminder to stick together but again to fall apart. Three groups that unite and crumble with the pull of each Games.

It was the touch of skin to crafted stone that brought the boy here today, the red paint still slick on the wall of his new home as he traced the crooked lettering: Slaughterhouse-17. It's far behind him now, buried under quickened breathing and dilated pupils. Squatting atop the baking rock, he struggles to close the cracks that bubble over his mind, works to cement the memories tight.

Enobaria—his mentor, his lifeline—had rounded the corner, water tinted crimson sloshing around the bucket she carried. _Let's talk_, she'd said, stilling the tremor in the boy's hands with the sponge she had scrubbed dirty words clean with. They always beg to talk, the victors that have surrounded the boy since his return. _Remember to carry on, bring the Games forward to leave it behind_, they chant. The Healing Process.

Instead, the boy buries the Games alive, sprinting for the quarries at every test of the barrier put in place. _Slate. Slate,_ the victors called after him, hands locked in a solid group as they watched him go.

Slate closes his eyes, sees the sloshing of water in Enobaria's bucket. In a rip of light, it's blood that paints the stone floor, not the tinted waters. He flies backwards on his hands, heart in his throat, as he slides his hands hungrily over the dry earth. It's smooth, clear: everything Slate wants his life to be. Free of the heavy weights dragging him back to the Games. He drags a clammy hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. _It's done_, he tells himself, over the buzz of the black flies around him. _It's done it's doneit's done its'sdone, he _chants louder, but it's drowned out, the drone of wings constant and unavoidable—

_Bam_. A burst of sound and color escape from under his eyes. Deep black insects buzzing over bright red blood, feeding on the festering flesh left crumpled under the hot, hot sun, the buzz of wings a soundtrack to the screams that bloom around the cool green of those maze walls—

Slate pushes it down, packs it back into the bleeding wound, knots it off clean like his new skin from the Capitol. The porcelain of his skin is just another reminder that it's over, he's safe, the Games polished away, chipped off him like the families now chipped of children.

A soft breeze plays across the quarry, the dry grasses softly shushing together, _shhhhh_, in an eerie dance, knocking against one another to in turn knock against his skin, the dead grass scratching at his polish, the carefully veneered stone he kept so hard, _shhhhh_, shattered, disintegrated in the baking heat pressing in on all sides.

It's green again; the sturdy leaves of those maze walls shushing in the wind, _shhhh. _All around him are the green walls, blocking him in on all sides. They were manageable at first, but then spiraled downward to a confusing mess as the days pressed on, the little boy left wandering madly through the labyrinth, lost, alone, but furious. Furious at how scared the Capitol made him feel, furious enough to carry him to the heart of the maze, the arena, the master plan—legs kicking, cries swirling, sharp metal raised. His hand comes down, _shhhh_, again and again, skin mottled, eyes and nose and freckles disappearing until all the sword crashes into are shapes of blinding red, flies buzzing in the flesh, silver tarnished with skin and guilt. The body paints itself across the stone, a lock of blond hair stuck to cavity lining, dirty fingernails digging into palms drained of life, those gore-drenched lips still stretched wide to plead, _shhhhh—_

Enobaria scoops the shaking child into her arms, carrying Slate through the empty quarry painted red with the blood pouring in the little boy's mind.


	3. District 3

"This is Cord here from District 3—"

The insect lens stare back at me, unblinking, holding its breath for me to go on.

"Try it again! You're just saying goodbye_. _It's _one_ line"

"This is Cord—"

My voice catches in my throat again, caught and held in place by the beady eyes of the camera. What makes it so alive? I want to unscrew the lens and fix what's inside, fix whatever's come to life to taunt me. Take out all the squirming wires and replace them with cold, hard metal.

"It's Cord from District 3..."

"For _damn's_ sake. Somebody make this kid talk!"

The skin under my right forearm begins to itch, something trying to crawl itself out from beneath the flesh. Hands grab me and push me forward, forcing me closer to that unblinking eye. We stare at each other, face to face, daring one another to make the first move.

"Unbe_liev_able!"

Suddenly there is someone else between us, lips spitting mad, teeth baring like the last challenger come to fight for life...

"If we don't get the line in the next three seconds, somebody's getting hurt. You got that, kid?"

The world starts going fuzzy, edges blurring as those lips forming inane words move out of focus. Someone shrieks tinnily in the distance as blurry forms rush together. There's a solid crunch, and I imagine it to be the sound the insect camera would make if I crushed it beneath my feet. The misshapen mass that was once my father tumbles from my vision and off the platform, leaving a blank horizon over the barren crossroads.

The last I make out is a fuzzy hand reaching up against the white sky, fingers splayed, before the world takes another shift and plunges into a cozy void. 

* * *

><p>The next thing I am aware of is the cool wood floor of my new home, the veneered planks smelling of a forest I've never been to before.<p>

"Cord! _Cord!"_

A red-faced man finally comes into focus above me, worry etched into his brows as he tries to call for my attention. He stops as soon as I finally look him in the eyes, a lopsided smile attempting to stretch across his sorrowed-features.

"Honey, I know you went through a lot," the man says, bending down to lay a plastered arm on my shoulder. He smells like my father, greasing oil and metal, but the words coming out of his mouth can't be his. "But we can't forget how to act around the Peacekeepers."

I reach up to touch the bright white of the plaster on one of the legs next to my ear, running my hands over the strips of bandages. "They broke you," I whisper. The edges are starting to blur again at an alarming rate.

"Cord, you have to snap out of this—"

A phone rings shrilly, the strange sound dragging reality back around me. In a split second my father's position has changed, his one whole hand pressing the device against my ear.

"It's Beetee," my father says. "He can help us. Like he helped you."

Soothing words start spilling out into the air around me, the robotic sound of my mentor trying to get through to me one last time.

"But I want your help, Daddy." There are no tears now, only the welcome void coming to take me out of the harsh world again.

"I just want you to get better, honey."

I open my eyes and the sun has shifted below the horizon, cool hands propping my back up as a reassuring face under a fluff of white hair smiles back at me. He's scooping me up, carrying me to his own house next door to an empty Village.

"Why can't he help me now?" I whisper, clutching at skin and neck so I don't fall under.

The ground shakes rhythmically up and down for a few moments, the only sound my mentor's breath through the night.

"Because they can't understand," Beetee says quietly.

The last thing I see before it's black again is an arm wrapped in white bandages, reaching out for me, fingers wide.


	4. District 4

_Whack. _

The throwing knife sticks haphazardly at the edge of the wooden target, barely clinging for life.

"Good... Good job, Piscis. Just work on that arm."

The nine-year-old boy clenches his fists, breathing in sharply.

The trainer in charge of the eight to ten age group weaves through the line of girls and boys until she stops at Piscis, smoothing his dark blond hair down tenderly.

"_Mom._" The little boy shakes the trainer's hand away, glaring at the sandy cement underneath his feet.

"Alright. Sorry, sweetie," she says, hand wavering uncertainly in the air before coming back down to position the boy's elbow more securely for throwing. "Everyone, make sure to keep arms up..."

Finnick sighs, tracing the circular frame of the warped glass window looking out over the Training Square. Peacekeepers line the edge between the Square and the marina, faces expressionless. The kids can't know. How bad this is, how terrible their fate has become. The Peacekeepers are always there, blocking the victors from revealing too much.

_Not that it matters_. Just a year ago, even the site of spears thrown into dummies had sent him over the edge, back into a mindless loop of the arena. It's best if he just stays away.

From above deck comes the sound of soothing voices, boots clomping. The boat tips slightly, bowing under the weight of its new visitors, before rocking back in place to the steady dip of the tides.

Finnick pulls down the shades to the boat window, the bent metal frame clanging as it comes down quickly. Now all that's out there is the bright whiteness of a blank slate, nothing but hope brimming over the horizon. Hopefully.

Light footsteps trip down the stairs and out stumbles a small girl with shoulder-length brown hair into the cabin. She looks around the room, eyes skirting over Finnick until she peers behind her up the stairs; the heavy creak of feet shifting on the stairs corralling her closer to the far wall. The feet pause, wait for a moment in the silence, before stomping up the stairs, satisfied the girl is lucid enough to be left alone for awhile, if only by a few yards.

"Hello, Annie," Finnick says, settling down on the worn boards of the cabin, legs crossed. The girl follows suit, collapsing in a heap across the room, far enough away from sticky skin and solid walls to avert the claustrophobia from bubbling up her throat.

"I don't want to talk today," she says, hugging her knees to her chest, brown hair falling in a sheet to graze her polished skin.

Finnick sighs, but leans back against the wood of the boat. The other victors told him it would take awhile; whole sessions could pass with not a word and they said it would be okay. "As long as she's with someone close to her age. Someone she can trust," they repeat, reassuring the boy to keep going when all hope looks lost.

So Finnick complies, days and weeks passing by with no words, no breakthrough to the most recent victor. Just the constant companionship of someone who knows what it's like.

It's nearing the end of summer, the water turning cold once again, when a happy shriek pierces through the window shade, a clank of metal on metal, the dull thud of a body hitting the cement. A loud cheer. Finnick glances at the covered window, trying to peer into stark whiteness, when a quiet groan escapes the girl's throat.

"Hey! Hey... it's okay," he says, crawling forward, hands fluttering uselessly at his sides. She's got her hands locked around her neck, fingernails digging into flesh until skin turns white, the green of her eyes clouded over with still-sharp memories. He reaches a hand out, slowly, gently now, willing her to stay calm, bring her back to the world. Hand over hand, skin to skin, he pulls her fingers away, deep halfmoons imprinted across her neck, blood trickling from a few. She whimpers for a moment, rocking slowly, before finally unraveling, letting the boy carry her back to the world.

"I see them every night. I see them in the day time, too, they're always watching. It's always red. It never goes away, I see them every night. He was right next to me. I could have saved him!"

Finnick pulls her closer, knobby knees knocking against knobby knees. _I'm only fifteen_, he says to himself. _How can we carry on like this?_

"How do you do it? How do they all do it? I can't! I see them everyday..."

It's quiet for a moment, the only sound the creaking of the stairs as the victors watching over them listen in. None of them have answers. None of them.

"I know," Finnick finally whispers, turning his back to the white, white window.

They come back every day for a year. They talk; mostly they don't. But the nightmares fade on both sides, a message to keep on carrying on. Little things can set it all off: the spearing of a fish in the dusk, a knife left wayside on the table. Little things can set them off, children screaming, running, footsteps falling. But little things can pull them back too. The buzz of family accounted for over dinner. The nod of victors around them. It's shared, the pain. Distributed like sweets on Parcel Day, spread thin until some days it can be bearable.

They don't have to return for a year, maybe two if they are lucky. They can stay put, sharing the pain, giving and receiving with the ebb and flow of the tides.

One day the moon will have to be pulled out of sync. Some can return to the frenzy, fending the Capitol with the balance of support. Still some are pulled in too far, too alone to count on the energy the victors provide. It's a fine line, the walk between wellness and distress. It's only fair to participate in the tug and pull the Capitol plays with the victors.

After all, we all have our triggers. It only matters if we have someone to reach out to us.


	5. District 5

"I want to play," I say quietly from the shadows.

The group of kids, about fifteen of them in all, turn from their circle, squinting through the evening darkness to look me over. Hushed voices break out, the group bumping heads as they lean in for a moment. _But it's Copper_, they whisper. _Copper_ _was the victor._

Water stings the corners of my eyes and I angrily brush the tears aside. They've lived with me forever. I know most of them by name.

Finally a red-haired girl steps forward boldly. The street lamp behind her casts a golden halo around her shockingly bright hair. I don't remember seeing that hair; I guess we were on different shifts at the metal plating factory. Before this. "We're playing Catch Me," she says. "You can't go past the long grass." She gestures out to the East Field, slapping a heavy stalk behind her.

I creep cautiously into the ring of light on the dirt-packed street. "I know how to play," I say indignantly. "Only in grass this tall, right?" I raise my hand to my shoulders and the kids flinch backwards, staring at my fist in the air.

My cheeks burn as I look out into the crowd. My gaze falls across Henry Steel, the boy who used to make my late night shifts at the factory bearable, but he cuts his eyes away, staring fixedly at the ugly dirt beneath his feet.

"Okay," the red-haired girl says after a beat. She clicks her tongue, turning back to the group. "On your marks..."

A breeze plays across the field as they all jostle into position at the edge, all of us leaning in on one knee.

"Get set..."

All around me exhalations jitter across the starting line, sharp and fast. My muscles tense, shoulders brushing shoulders, everyone bunched in so tight my head starts to spin.

"...GO!"

The line bursts into skittering action, kids shrieking in the night as we all tumble into the field. We're all together in the first seconds, a mess of arms and legs, shouts and hollers, before we scatter, It in hot pursuit.

The red-head's blunt-cut hair swishes out of site in front of me, bright locks catching on the dry leaves before she's gone. All around me is the dry rustle of stalks, _shh shh shh_, as kids disappear into the night, my own path in front of me crackling roughly before I burst through to an empty section, running at full speed.

Long reeds graze my shoulders on both sides, _shh shh shh_, each individual bending and then snapping back in place as I race by like wind in the night. A girl shrieks and the stalks in front of me are flattened, laughter piercing the night as It tackles her to the floor. My breathing hitches, heart pumping in my throat as the black figures roll around and around in the grasses in front of me. Something silver catches in the light from the street lamps, metal flashing, an arm raised, and I tear across the field, legs pumping wildly as I trip over hidden knots and rabbit holes.

Dust billows out behind me as the shouts and laughter fade into the night. I slow down now, the moon above me as only the occasional runner flits past, _shh shh shh_, giggles flickering in the blue fields.

Another breeze rolls in, rolling down the grasses in the blue, blue light. I come to a full stop, grass stalks brushing down my neck, my skin prickling as the dry weeds shift in the darkness, casting shadows down the field. It's moving closer, barreling down the row in front of me, flattening the stalks on it's way—

_Got you!_ a girl shrieks, pummeling into my side and launching us into the dusty grass beneath us. She's laughing, hands flailing as our momentum pulls us rolling through the blackness, the flash of her metal glasses catching in the street lamp glow, silver like the sword that pierced my side—

The girl raises her arm, fingers clenched, and I jerk backwards, bringing my own fist back defensively, pulling back my arm—

"_Hey_! What are you doing...?"

_Wham_, my fist smacks against her jaw and she falls onto her back, chest heaving. I throw myself on top of her, reeling back my fist for another hit, and the girl let's out a blood-curdling shriek, bucking wildly underneath me.

"Get her off me! Get her _off me!"_

_"_What the hell—?"

"What's going on?"

_Crunch_. My fingers connect solidly with my attacker's face and blood spouts reassuringly from her nose. Suddenly, hands grab me from all sides, dragging me off the girl with the sword, fingernails digging into my skin. I thrash around wildly, kicking feet and throwing fists, but more hands grab onto me. Something presses against my throat and I scream, throwing my head back and writhing in the air.

"What's wrong with her?"

"She _punched_ me!"

My foot connects with something solid and someone shouts, hands suddenly releasing me until I crash onto the dry grass floor. I roll into a ball, body shaking uncontrollably, clawing at my neck again and again, trying to pull away those blood-stained fingers that aimed to kill me.

"Somebody go get Mr. Nickel!"

"She's mad!"

"Go to the factory and get her dad!"

Someone tries to pull my hands away from my neck and I lash out, scratching the air, but the arm pulls away, footsteps backing up all around me. I can feel the hands clenching tighter against my neck and I scream, rolling back and forth in the grasses in an attempt to shake them off me.

Heavy footsteps fall next to my ears and strong hands dig under my back, try to pull me upwards. I kick my feet out and try to push away, but my throat is closing up, making it dangerously hard to breath.

"Copper, it's okay," a deep voice rumbles, and my feet are instantly stilled. It's my mentor, come to save me! I bury into his small, weathered chest, trying to suck air into my lungs. His hands are on my hair, my back, smoothing away the memories that flicker underneath my skin. In the distance I hear my father, _Copper! Copper, _watch a figure cast in shadows sprinting down the street. My street. I'm home. The last thing I see before the reassuring blackness is the group of kids, eyes wide as they watch us go.


	6. District 6

A fly whirls around the paneless window, its buzzing filling the victor's ears pleasantly and calming him back down to a state of forgetfulness.

"Cillin, are you listening to us?"

Cillin turns from the window slowly and rests his eyes on the couple across from him as if they were somebody else's parents. The old man leans heavily on a wooden cane, the slightly younger woman stares across to the boy with fear and sadness in her eyes. All around them, a milky yellow fog pulsates through the air, reminding Cillin that he once knew brighter times with these strangers.

"Honey... we're concerned with how much morphling you're taking," the woman says in a thick voice. As she talks, it looks to Cillin as if mists of black and blue curl from her mouth with her heavy words. "We thought it would be a good idea to let you try some when you came home..."

"Just to ease you back into District 6," the old man says roughly.

"But this is too much," the woman adds. "Why do you act this way ever since you came back to us? We were so glad to have our son back..." She tries to set her mouth in a defient line, but the sad waves of blue clouding her eyes and face break any sternness she tried to convey to Cillin. "But not this son. It's embarrassing. Only... only the_ broken_ behave like this. We're not broken."

"We're not some common begger family," the man interjects.

The withered woman opens her mouth to speak again but Cillin's gaze drifts back to the paneless window. Out on the dirt-packed square people move quickly to medicine factories or distillaries, never stopping to look at the huddled masses slumped on the streets. They sit with shabby blankets clutched tightly around them even in the mug of summer, sunken eyes staring at the District life that moves on without them. Nobody wants to catch the sickness not even the medicinal District can fix.

"...and we've decided you're not to see your mentors any longer," the old man finally finishes.

Cillin swivels his head slowly back to the couple, this last sentence hanging in the air, trying to soak through the airy nothing surrounding his brain. The image of Acetyl and Drenalyne float up to the surface of his mind, their sunken eyes and pallid skin the only welcoming sight left in this god-forsaken District. A world without the two to help him glide through all the misery simply could not exist to Cillin. A dull ache begins to spread to his fingertips and toes, fighting against the calm of the swirling colors and buzzing of the flies.

"No," Cillin finally says into the empty air. One lone little word to fight against the screaming sentences being thrown at him, berating the calm from all sides. The no floats through the air, battling the accusations and demands like sword to skin...

Cillin hiccups and stands up quickly, whatever was in his lap sliding to the floor and landing with a distant crash.

"No," he says again, closing his hands over unwanted memories trickling into his vision.

"You're giving us no choice!" the woman screams. "We can't be seen with you!"

The harsh shouting prickles Cillin's skin, causes him to stumble backwards toward the open door. He takes another step to the cool air just outside the house, putting air and time in between the raised words.

"IF YOU WALK BACK TO THEM NOW, WE WILL NOT ACCEPT YOU BACK IN THIS HOUSE!"

It's so nice outside. The setting sun paints swirls of beautiful orange and gold across the horizon.

"ONE MORE STEP AND YOU'RE NO SON OF OURS."

Cillin swings his leg out into the open air, his skin tingling with the energy streaming in from the sun. Another step and he's immersed in it, a cool breeze bringing clouds of purple and blue to calmly envelope over the memories in his eyes.

The boy walks on, unaware of how close he now is to the huddled skeletons lining the streets.


	7. District 7

**AN: Sorry I haven't been updating the story very much...college is keeping me really busy.**

It was drizzling and bitingly cold, like most work days during this time of the year. As I slid past the low branches of pine needles blocking the path, an icy sliver of rain crawled down the inside of the thin, patched fibers of my jacket, a reminder of the bitter memories that follow us even after the worst were supposed to have passed.

The green sapling of budding branches creaked and splintered behind me, sending of volley of freezing water to the ground. I paused, fingering the rough bark of a pine under the weathered palms of my leather gloves. "Johanna," I said after a moment of silence. "You need to go home."

More branches snapped behind me and I turned, trying to rearrange the sorrow-filled features of my expression. She stood a few meters back, brown hair plastered to her skull in the wet like a cap, holding the broken twigs that had crowded the path a few moments ago. Her mouth was tugged down in grim determination.

"I'm coming to work today," she said, whipping the branches to the side in anger. "Nobody can stop me."

I glanced at the white uniform-clad bodies standing sentinel up ahead. "They whipped you the last time you showed up here."

"They can't hurt me." She tugged her sleeves down past her elbows, rubbing the scars I know lined her forearms under the microfibers of her Capitol-crafted jacket. The pockets and lining of the sturdy material were oddly puffed, as though she had gained weight since the last time I saw her—lying on the cold wood floors at home in the hours before dawn, eyes unseeing as she faced the ceiling.

I took a step toward her, fingers outstretched to feel the jacket, but she leaped aside, slapping my hand away with a ringing _smack_.

"_Johanna_," I hissed. She took another step to the side, holding her arms out protectively as she tried to push past me. I could feel the eyes of the Peacekeepers on us. Watching. They can't know who we are from this distance, but all they had to do was walk forward to see.

"Johanna!" I tried to block her path with the width of my body, but she darted forward, catching my ribs with her palms flat, sending me reeling into the trees, rain shaking over the both of us.

I could hear twigs snapping under foot, the Peacekeepers quickly approaching. I jumped away from my sister, quietly begging her to leave. For once, this one glorious time, she listened to me, slipping off the path and melting into the sharp green forest surrounding us.

"What's going on here?"

I turned around slowly, scrunching my nose up and forcing tears out of my eyes.

"Someone attacked me on my way to clear cutting! They took my breakfast rations from me." My voice caught in a sob at just the right moment, the Peacekeepers' mistrust turning to disgust. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the last remaining crumbs of the hard biscuits the clear cutting officials allotted everyone before chopping started at dawn. "All I have left is crumbs."

One of the Peacekeepers reached out and lazily smacked the underside of my cupped palm, sending the last of the biscuit flying into the brush and pine needles. "Idiot girl," she sneered.

"You should know the workless hide in the forest around this time. You see the riffraff every day, stealing food," the other one said dismissively. "It's your own fault. Keep better watch next time."

I lowered my eyes, squeezing more tears out. "You're right," I sniffled. "I'm sorry."

The Peacekeepers began to retreat, the sound of crunching nettles underfoot. I sighed, the tension in my shoulders releasing until a rough hand grabbed my chin, forcing me to look up.

The woman Peacekeeper was a few steps away, but halted now, watching in confusion for a moment before her male partner spoke.

"You're the Mason girl," he snarled, the smell of acrid, expensive coffee rolling off his breath.

"No—"

The Peacekeeper yanked my chin upwards, forcing me to bite down hard on my tongue, real tears now mixing with the fake at the corners of my eyes.

"I thought we taught you to stay away from camp—"

"No, I'm her sister!" I gasped, tears spilling down my cheeks. I yanked my hood down with shaking fingers, long brown hair spilling down my back. "Johanna has short hair!"

The guard dug his fingernails into my skin before releasing my chin, his cold fingertips trailing down my neck and latching onto the hair at the base of my skull.

"How do I know you didn't buy a pretty wig with all that money you earned?" He leaned closer, the air musky with his sweat, and he pulled my hair down, forcing my face upwards again, his lips inches from my skin.

I bit down on my lower lip, straining to pull my head from his grasp, but he just held tighter, lowering his lips onto the side of my jaw.

"I wasn't the one who went crazy with the power saw! I'm not Johanna!" I cried, trying to twist my body out of his grasp. The Peacekeeper just laughed and slid his lips to my ear, where my pulse pounded maddeningly loud.

"You're a crazy one," he whispered in my ear, "but I like a little fun." My torso shuddered as his cold fingers snaked their way inside my jacket, traveling slowly up my spine like the rain slithering against my skin in reverse.

I closed my eyes, stamping my feet in an effort to catch his toes, but the Peacekeeper just pushed me roughly against the bark of a pine. "If you've got half as much energy now as when you went crazy with those power tools…" His tongue wet the inside of my ear, as warm as the snot and tears dripping off my chin.

The Peacekeeper worked his freezing fingers over my skin, my mind trying to pull away at the sound of his zipper pulling undone. 

Johanna had insisted on returning to work after she was crowned Victor, smiling at the Peacekeepers and explaining that she wanted to feel at home again. Our ma told me to keep an eye on her, watch her for some kind of slip she was sure Johanna was going to take. But she let her go anyway.

I took my eyes off her for a minute, fingers dancing over the power-up buttons on my saw, the Capitol-made tool unfurling into life and purring softly through the bark. A tool to my side made a screeching whine of metal and I looked over to see Johanna, her fingers trembling over a simple ax and her eyes glazed over.

"Johanna?" I had said uncertainly, a note of panic in my voice. She picked up the ax slowly, cradling it in her arms.

"You're not killing me today," she said quietly.

"What?"

"_Get __away __from __me __with __the __weapon!_" she screamed, wheeling the ax through the air, missing my arm by inches.

_"__Johanna!_" I screeched, dropping my power saw, still on, onto the ground. It buzzed dully by Johanna's feet and she gave a wordless cry, throwing the ax towards me with scarily-close accuracy, the blade slicing the shoulder of my jacket and an inch of skin on its whirl through the air.

I fell to the ground, clutching my shoulder but still trying to scramble away. Johanna had the power saw in her hands now, wheeling it through the air in crazed circles, Peacekeepers and townspeople who used to be our friends trying to subdue her. A group of Peacekeepers managed to jam any electronics in a ten-meter radius, and as soon as the saw spluttered dead in her hands, at least ten of the white-clad bodies piled on top of her, one of them shoving a needle into her skin as she kicked and bit wildly.

"_Johanna!_" I screamed. Blood trickled down my arm but I didn't feel the sting of the blade yet. Townspeople were all around me, pushing me back and applying pressure on the wound, but I tried to push forward, struggling to reach my now unconscious sister.

"You killed her!" I screamed. "_You __killed __my __sister!__"_

More hands kept pushing me back, the crowd of white uniforms disappearing behind a haze of townspeople and the encroaching blackness blooming across my vision. "She didn't mean it," I tried to say, turning my head wildly, trying to focus on a familiar face. "It wasn't her fault..."

I passed out from the pain, and when I came to the Peacekeepers had taken her for a week, my Johanna returning finally with a hazy cloud in her eyes, distracted and confused but determined to set _something_ right. 

"ELI! FINISH UP OVER THERE, THEY FOUND THE VICTOR AT THE WORK SITE!"

The Peacekeeper wrapped around me now pulled out, panting hard and grinning. "I see it runs in the family," he whispered roughly.

"ELI! THEY CAUGHT HER TRYING TO SMUGGLE FOOD TO THE WORKERS! COME OVER HERE!"

The man unwrapped himself from me, cocking his gun while keeping a steely grip on my elbow. He dragged me toward the camp, ripping my grip from the tree easily.

As we came to the clearing, Johanna was in the center, bread and sugar spilling out of the folds of her jacket, Peacekeepers holding her down all around her. I dug my toes into the dirt, trying to pull away.

More shouts and screams littered the air, but something was wrong with my hearing, the world punctuated with a whining, high-pitched squeal.

The Peacekeepers forced Johanna to face towards me, holding her head in place, ignoring her snapping teeth.

"No…"

My Peacekeeper pulled my forward, right in front of my sister, leaning down to my ear once more. "We're going to teach her a lesson, pretty."

"No!"

Johanna realized what was about to happen before me, suddenly bucking under the Peacekeepers with a strength tenfold from before. Her voice broke through the confusing haze, high-pitched and thick with sobs.

"Take me instead! Take me! Kill me instead!"

A Peacekeeper's gun poked the back of my head, but I couldn't fight it anymore. The air was tilted, the sunlight fractured in a million wrong ways, the light too intense. My muscles wouldn't comply, my mouth only working to form a wordless scream.

They were still holding her in front of my, forcing her eyes straight ahead as the Peacekeeper's fingers pulled on the trigger.


End file.
